Emily Linder.
II.—Her Conversion.
We are now arrived at the most important period of her life. Miss Linder often referred with thankful heart to God's guiding providence; and in the steady progress of her spiritual life thus far is this not to be mistaken. Naturally religious, and inspired with an unaffected yearning for the entire truth, she was happily conducted into a circle of friends where her dawning faith received both impulse and guidance. Exterior incidents strengthened a certain interior magnetic bias. Since the day which rendered Assisi so dear to her, an invisible power had drawn her toward the visible church, and her leaning to Catholicity was imperceptibly strengthened. Her activity in art deepened her sympathies with a church in which art finds its true place and consecration. An intellectual intercourse of many years with friendly Catholic men and families could not fail to remove many a prejudice. Thus had an unexpected but powerful combination of circumstances conspired to lead a mind ingenuously seeking the truth to Catholicity. It would be quite a mistake, however, to suppose, as has been thought by some, that the personal influence of any friend whatever had worked decisively upon her determination to take the final step. No one could do this; not even Brentano, strong as was his interest in her spiritual life.
Clemens Brentano had come to Munich in October, 1833, and made his domestic arrangements in his usual characteristic style at Professor Schlotthauer's, "in one of the most pious and genial of Noah's arks," as he facetiously describes it. His associations led him into the same social circle in which Miss Linder moved, and soon after his arrival he made her acquaintance. Her pious earnestness, her cultivated, artistic nature, her charming and judicious benevolence, enchained his interest; and he believed, as is stated in his biography, to have found in her just the nature for the Catholic faith. One knows with what strength and zeal Brentano devoted himself (and in increasing ratio with increasing years) to such friends as were dear to him in the matter, particularly, of their acquaintance with the faith of his own church, and their participation in her blessings. His animated desire to instruct, which was ever without affectation or concealment, expressed itself in just such cases with the utmost freedom and frankness. Whoever reads that clever letter, "To a Lady Friend," written during these years at Munich, can tolerably well judge of the tone and style with which he brought home to a pious Protestant the warmth and depth of his religious convictions.
Certain is it that Miss Linder gained, through Brentano, a deep insight into the inner life of the church and the hidden graces and forces which stream through her. He had the power, as she said, "of making some things intelligible which might otherwise remain for ever closed to one." The life and the visions of Katharina Emmerich, which he read aloud on her weekly reading-evenings, made a profound impression upon her. As though in confirmation of what she heard, she saw with her own eyes at Kaldern a similar phenomenon in Maria von Mörl, that astounding living wonder, and was penetrated with the atmosphere of truth with which, as Gorres expresses it, Maria von Mörl seemed enveloped. She caused a portrait of this phenomenon to be executed by her lady friend, Ellenrieder; and always gladly gave her visitors (as is stated by Emma Niendorf) a full description of the stigimated, just as Brentano was wont to do in his letters. In this, as in other ways, was her intercourse with Brentano of service to her. To many an outwork of knowledge did he build a bridge, a pontifex maximus, as he once jestingly applied the term to himself. Finally, his own Christian death made a profound and lasting impression upon her.
Any other influence than mild, patient instruction was, once for all, excluded by her. Even the holiest zeal, if it sought, in any way, to crowd in upon her, could only force a nature like hers into antagonism, and check everything like quiet development. With all her humility, this lady possessed the self-reliance and genuine independence of a Swiss. She sought the way of truth with such deep longing that she willingly accepted guidance; but with such severe scrutiny, that she was not to be confused, and was inaccessible to every kind of coaxing from any side. For, from the quarter of her old theological standpoint there was no lack of friendly advice, or of opinions bringing great weight with them,—supposing that mere human opinions could ever have decided such a question. Even raillery was not lacking. Platen gave his particular attention to this kind of weapon, and put himself to no little trouble to ridicule her out of her Catholic proclivities. The theological tendency she had taken since the days passed at Sorrento had become to the poet of the Abassiden altogether "too romantic," and he hoped to cool her religious zeal with a cold irony. Thus, he once satirically addressed himself to her from Florence, (February 24th, 1835,) "Might one be so bold as to enquire what progress you have made in your conversion to the only saving church; or is this a secret? In case of a change of religion, I trust you will follow the advice of a friend, and turn, rather, to the Greek Church. For, if you prize Catholicism on account of its antiquity, the Greek Church is doubtless older. And is it the ceremonial which particularly attracts you; then here, too, is the Greek service far more aesthetic and imposing." Count Platen doubtless felt that in a theological controversy he was no match for his well-informed friend; and therefore, in his letters he appealed to her as an artiste. True, the barrenness of Protestantism in art he quietly admitted; but all the better success he promised himself in an attempt to belittle the merit of the church in the field of art by certain cunning sophistries. In several of his letters he stumbled upon the neither very bright nor novel idea of presenting the church as at an obsolete standpoint. "Certainly," he admonishes the artist, "Catholicity, as a thing of a former age, is highly to be esteemed, but not for the present. Her time is past, even for art. Perhaps by and by an artera may dawn upon her, but this will be of a purely aesthetic nature; for a blending of art with religion is no longer among the possibilities," etc. The thought that his friend, after all, might take some such fatal step evidently gave the poet much uneasiness; for even in his last letter to her, written but two weeks before his death, he makes another attempt at the same style of argument. It is contained in a description of Palermo, written at Naples, September 7th, 1835: "I received your welcome letter shortly after my return from Calabria. I know not how my mother could write you that Palermo did not please me; or, if so, to what extent this was the case. I simply remember saying that the location of Palermo bore no comparison with that of Naples. There are certainly lacking the islands, Vesuvius, and the coast of Sorrento; although the mountain background of Palermo is very beautiful. The Rogers chapel, there, is something that would please you—a church of the twelfth century, in perfect preservation; its style that of the old Venetian and Roman churches; and although of smaller dimensions, yet the finest of them all. It is the more interesting to attend a service there, because one sees that Catholic culture was calculated solely for the Byzantine style of architecture; for with such surroundings, only, could it be effective. Thus does Catholicity, even as to architecture, prove itself a thing of the past."
Enough of this. Such platitudes as these were not calculated to entangle a nature far too deep for them, or check the development of a work so earnestly undertaken. Emily Linder well knew that the church has already outlived many just such "obsolete standpoints," and many such prophets of evil, who have mistaken their wishes for reality, and phrases for axioms. How dignified and how welcome, in comparison with this sophistry from Naples, must have seemed to her the greeting of an old friend and art companion addressed to her from Rome, in the spring of 1833: "Be assured that I often fervently remember you to our Lord. Do you the same by me. May a holy unrest and impatience fill us to take 'by violence' the kingdom of heaven!"
This holy unrest had indeed for some time possessed her, and on many an occasion broke forth in expressions of touching and yearning expectancy. While viewing the cathedral of Cologne, in the year 1835, she ardently exclaims, "Ah! of a certainty an age whose lofty inspirations (and of no transient kind) could produce such monuments as this, deserved neither the epithet of rude nor dark. There resided in it a light which we, with our (gas!) illumination, could never produce." Again, as to the interior of the grand cathedral—"I know not why, but I cannot repress my tears. An irrepressible melancholy and yearning seizes me here." The same year, after viewing with Schubert the minster at Ulm, she makes this noteworthy observation in her journal, "It almost pained me that the old cathedral is no longer used for Catholic service, and that the choir and sanctuary are now so desolate." Already had she adopted many Catholic views. At an early period she believed in an active sympathy between this and the other world, and a purification of the soul in that world. The church's benediction was highly prized by her; for which reason, even as Protestant, she was in the habit of bearing about with her on her travels a little flask of holy water. Many of her views were as yet very undecided; but strong and irrepressible was her longing for that truth which should bring her peace. This clung by her in all her wanderings, and often drew from her a deep cry of the heart. The notes which she made during a trip to Holland, in company with Schubert, in the year 1835, closed with the following words, "These lonely days of travel have left me much time for meditation. To-day a crowd of thoughts and emotions fairly thronged upon me. I said to myself, To what purpose all this? Whither is this invisible power impelling us? Are we really advanced by it, or made the happier? Often this affluence of emotion rises to a kind of transport; then, again, it turns to pain, for I know not the why nor the whither. Is there a connectedness in all this? Is it enduring? Once more, then, why? During this journey of mine I have often prayed, O Lord, let me know thy will. Let me follow the path which is pleasing to thee. Lead me but to thyself, and in any way thou mayst choose. Let it become clear what thou really desirest of me. By this means I experienced great relief, and also the certainty that He, who with such signal fidelity had thus far led me, would clearly make known to me his will, would guide me into his paths."
As the interior movement increased, she was impelled to confer with intelligent friends in the distance concerning this most momentous interest of her life. Especially with Overbeck there ensued a correspondence which, continuing for years, was of great assistance in attaining to religious clearness. Overbeck took kindest interest in her doubts and scruples. He had formerly gone over the same ground, and could therefore confer with her about such matters "as a brother." His letters grew into a connected vindication of Catholic doctrine, and the truth and beauty of the church, expressed in the mild, clear, fervent, and touching language of one equally worthy of respect as man and artist. With a nature like Overbeck's, where the man and the artist are not two distinct individualities, but are united in a higher form —Christianity—words have a more elevated significance; and a correspondence with him must have necessarily possessed an import more than usually edifying. Emily Linder deeply felt this. We take her own testimony when we say that Overbeck's letters contributed largely toward her religious development; and, by the overwhelming conviction of his words, no less than by his own deep spirituality, she attained to a knowledge of very vital truths. She viewed the assistance he rendered her in the light of a perpetual obligation; and in later years, long after she became a Catholic, she breathed, in her letters to the admirable master, a "God reward you for it."
Meantime, however, she had to pass through many a severe struggle. The wrestling and testing which her conscientiousness imposed upon her was of long continuance. The dread of a hasty step which might afterward plunge her into the deepest unrest, caused her to advance but cautiously. Her mental vacillation continued for quite a period, during which she was filled with unsatisfied spiritual yearnings. She stood just on the portal of the church, afraid to enter. Many a prayer, far and near, ascended in her behalf to heaven. Brentano lived not to witness the conversion he so longed for. But the hope which gladdened his last days attained a realization the year after his death.
In 1842, she wrote to an artist friend in Frankfort, "I am fully satisfied that I entertain no prejudices, and honestly wish to know God's will. He has already cleared away many a spiritual obstacle, and transformed much within me. When it is his holy will to lead me into the church, I am confident that he will remove every remaining hinderance to my conviction." She thought, however, that the church did not give Protestants a very easy time. Their acceptance of the Tridentine confession of faith was a hard matter. Still, her mind had already attained to such clearness that she now desired the instruction of some competent priest. Through the instrumentality of Diepenbrock, a theological teacher was brought to her, who gained her confidence. She earnestly began her task, zealously and perseveringly devoting to it several hours a week for an entire year. The structure of Catholic faith began to open itself to her now with all its interior consistency and harmony. One scruple after another vanished, including those which finally troubled her; as, for instance, the expression, "Mother of God;" the alleged mutilation of the holy sacrament, by withdrawal of the cup from the laity, etc. In the words of her spiritual guide, she learned to distinguish that which is divine, and essential, and immutable in the church, from that which is human, and incidental, and mutable; and what had hitherto proved an insurmountable obstacle, the seemingly mechanical, and often rude devotions of the common people, as also the worldly splendor of the hierarchy—this ceased to trouble her more.
In the autumn of 1843, Miss Linder made another tour to the Tyrol and Upper Italy, and few could surmise that she was so near to the decisive step. She writes from Munich, on the 16th of October, "I have just made with the Schuberts a somewhat fatiguing trip as far as Verona, where, by the way, I had almost come to a standstill, to copy a picture there. We then remained for a couple of weeks in Botzen, where all was so quiet, and reposeful, and secluded, that it was right grateful to me." Amid this stillness and seclusion to which she abandoned herself, still more than in Munich, was finally brought to maturity "the great work of redemption."
Toward the end of November, 1843, on the approach of Advent, there burst upon her spiritual life a new era, and her long suspense and yearning resolved itself into the cry, "I will enter the church!" The final word of decision was immediately winged to heaven on a prayer. Upon the threshold of that expectant season, when the church sings, "Drop down dew, ye heavens, from above, and let the clouds rain the just," she participated, one morning, with the most ardent devotion, in a low mass celebrated in conformity with her intention. This was the decisive hour. She left the chapel with the joyous and unalterable resolve to enter into fellowship with the Catholic Church. All was overcome, aided and enlightened by the grace of God. Standing before her little house altar, she rehearsed, for the first time, the Catholic creed.
The first to whom the glad intelligence flew was a noble pair, Apollonia Diepenbrock and her brother, the latter of whom was subsequently the celebrated cardinal and bishop of Breslau, but at that time, the vicar-general of Regensburg. Both were associated with the pious artiste in a friendship of many years, and had been long familiar with the course of her religious development. Melchior von Diepenbrock, during just this last period, had been a faithful and intelligent adviser to her. The disciple of Sailers responded to the joyous intelligence with a peace-greeting befitting a shepherd of the church. He wrote on the 29th of November, 1843:
"Hindered by very unwelcome business, I was unable, either yesterday or the day before, to express my heartfelt sympathy and delight over the surprising intelligence of your note of Saturday. Surprising, because I had not anticipated so sudden a loosening of the fruit, ripe as it was. But the wind 'which bloweth where it listeth,' stirred the tree, and the ripe, mellow fruit fell into the lap of the true mother, where it will now be well cared for, growing mellower and sweeter until the coming of the Bridegroom. My hope and prayer for you now is, that peace and rest may be yours after a suspense and unrest which has thus loosed itself in the simple and welcome words,'I will enter the church.' But you have every reason to be at rest; for a church which has given birth to a Wittman, a Sailer, a Fénélon, a Vincent de Paul, a Tauler, a Suso, a Thérèse, a Bernard, an Augustine, an Athanasius, a Polycarp, and so on, up to the apostles themselves, and which has nursed them on her breast with the self-same heavenly doctrine; from whose mouth and from whose life, in turn, this same identical doctrine has been breathed down like a fragrant aroma, through a course of eighteen hundred years; in such a church is there safe and good travelling companionship for heaven. Following their guidance, you need not fear going astray. I therefore, from my very soul, bid you welcome to this noble company to which you have long since, through your intense yearning, and by anticipation, belonged, but now have identified yourself with openly, by a grasp of the hand and a kiss of reconciliation; with whom you will soon fully and finally be incorporated by that most sacred seal and covenant, that highest consecration of love, the holy Eucharist. You have had a rough and thorny path to travel, and passed through long years of struggle, doubt, and conflict, to arrive at this goal. Bind, now, the olive wreath of peace coolingly around your heated temples. Let all labor of the brain, all strain of the intellect, now subside. Live a life of tranquillity. Open your heart to a reception of the holy gifts which the church, as you enter, proffers you. And above all, banish all anxiety and doubt, for therewith you gain nothing, and spoil all. Let your barque, wafted by the breath of God, glide peacefully down the broad stream of the church's life. Revel in the stars, and the flowers which mirror themselves therein, the denizens that disport there; and, should now and then an uncouth, repulsive creature catch your eye, reflect that the kingdom of God is still entangled in the contradictions of developement. Think upon that great world-net which gathers souls of every description, and upon the angel who, upon the great day, will separate them all. And now I commend you to God. Once more, may peace and joy in the Holy Ghost be your morning-gift."
And soon this "morning-gift" possessed her soul. Being fully prepared, her admission, as she had wished, could be immediate. But she desired to take the step in all quietness, and only a few of her friends, like Professor Haneberg and Phillips, were informed of it the evening before, she desiring to secure for herself their prayers.
On the 4th of December, 1843, Emily Linder, accompanied by her friend Apollonia, in the Georgian Seminary chapel made solemn profession of the Catholic faith. On the day following, the papal nuncio, Viale Prelà, administered to her, in his house-chapel the sacrament of confirmation; delivering, at the same time, an eloquent address in German. The friend before mentioned was godmother, and, as one present remarked, by her faith, her love, her prayers, and her efforts, she had indeed proved her spiritual mother. In company with this friend, she went to Regensburg, in order to withdraw into retirement, and to be alone with her new-born joy.
Her letters during this period give animated testimony to what extent, and with what daily increase, this joy was experienced. A jubilant rapture pervades the letters which announce the event to distant friends, particularly those addressed to Overbeck in Rome and Steinle in Frankfort; both friends and companions in art. These and a few others had been admitted to her confidence in spiritual matters. To the latter, whom, of her younger friends, she particularly prized and respected, she thus announces the circumstance, "This time I come to you with but few words; words no longer conditional, but right conclusive. I am a Catholic. Could I have written to you, as I wished, to ask your prayers for me before the eventful hour, even then you might have been taken by surprise; but now the news has doubtless reached you from Munich, and I write this letter simply as confirmation, and because I wish that you should be informed of it by me personally. You have lately hardly thought, I suppose, that it would come so soon; and yet I was long prepared for it. After many a struggle, particularly of late, it had become to me a positive necessity, a natural and necessary development of my spiritual life. When I had once announced my determination to the clergyman who for some time had been instructing me, my desire was to take the step right quickly. My good Apollonia left Regensburg immediately for Munich, to be present at my reception into the church; and the day following this I was confirmed. I have now accompanied my friend hither to escape from all excitement and pass some days in retirement; needed opportunity of fortifying myself against much that must necescessarily come, that is hard and disagreeable. Yet has God been inexpressibly kind and gentle in his dealings with me thus far."
A letter to the same friend on the 19th of January thus reads:
"My last letter was very, very brief; but the glad tidings had to come first, and for this few words were needed. But now six weeks have flown, and it may give you pleasure to hear that I am daily newly bleat, newly affected by the great goodness of God. You may not have doubted this, yet you may be glad to be assured of it, having always taken such interest in my welfare. Ah dear Steinle! how sweet, how sweet a thing to be in the church! I ask myself every day, Why then, I? Why just to myself has this grace been vouchsafed, in preference to others so much worthier of it? How can this have come about? For no other reason, surely, than because so many faithful souls living close to God, have interceded, so untiringly interceded for me, that God could not resist their importunity. How often, how very often must I exclaim, as you have done, God be praised and extolled for ever. Now for the first time do I understand that deep longing and incessant yearning of the heart. Oh! would that all, all were in God's one, great house; would that all could experience the friendliness, the inexpressible friendliness of the Lord, he whose mercy transcends all understanding and conception. Ah dear friend! supplicate and implore God for me, that this grace—I will not say may be deserved, how could this ever be?—but that I may daily more deeply comprehend and appreciate it, and that my life may become one song of thankfulness and benediction. I am still like a happy little child at rest in the lap of its mother. The cross will yet come, and perhaps must necessarily do so; yet am I not dismayed; for well I know where, at any hour, courage, and strength, and consolation are to be found.
"Hitherto has God made it very easy to me. My sister—the only one I have—was surprised and grieved at the first intelligence; but rather, I think, from a loving dread that I might be estranged from her. Now that she finds this is not the case, I hear no complaint from her. My nieces and my intimate friends at home are all unchanged. Just here, too, my friends have remained the same; only two of my young lady acquaintances thought it due to their religious convictions to break with me; but lo! on New Year's day they both came and threw their arms around my neck. … God be with us all! May he purify and sanctify us and help us mature to life eternal. Once again, pray to God for me. Join me in ascribing thanks to him for his inexpressible goodness. With heartfelt friendship,
"Emily Linder."
From this time forth Advent possessed for her a peculiarly festive significance. She celebrated each recurring anniversary with feelings of the humblest gratitude, making it a threefold festival, and greeting it with the joyousness and bliss of a child who had received on that day the costliest of gifts; for it was the anniversary of her day of final decision, her reception into the church, and her confirmation. On the 27th of December, 1844, she thus writes again to the same friend:
"Shall I attempt to depict to you the experience of my inner life? Oh! it is ever yet to me, to use your own expression, the pure mother-milk of inexpressible grace and goodness. Such, at times, is the intensity of my joy, that it is as though I must hold fast my heart with both hands. I have been celebrating of late a great festivals of the soul; for at advent time I entered the church, but included in my devotional intention, also, was the celebration of my decision and confirmation; all these were occasions of spiritual festivity. One entire year of grace and blessedness! … The kind Tony F—— calls me 'the pet-child of the Lord.' This may be so; but when I enquire, Whence this to me? oh! then I must deeply, deeply bow myself, and with profoundest shame can only still enquire of my Lord, Whence this to. me? … Nor will I entertain forebodings for the future. He who infuses such rapture into the heart, can—yes, must—impart strength and courage, when he lays the cross upon our shoulders. He will do it, too—benedictions on his holy name!"
How idle, now, appeared all the fears and anxiety as to a too hasty step, which had rendered her final decision so difficult, while still standing at the diverging pathways. Not a trace more of the unrest which had so troubled her. The morning-gift of peace and joy in faith, which Diepenbrock's kind wishes bespoke her, had become indeed her assured inheritance. A song of thankfulness warbled unceasingly in her heart.
A few more expressions which escaped her, will show that the transport she experienced was not the effect of transient excitement. On one occasion she thus addresses a friend:
"You may be assured, of course, without written proof, that I often think of you: but how often I breathe to you spiritually my joy, my exceeding joy—do you know this? My heart often sings like that of a little child before a Christmas-tree, over the inexhaustible goodness of God, and knows not how it should demean itself in the possession of such imperishable gifts. How good, how very good has God been thus to call me into his holy church!"
On the recurrence of advent she writes again on the 8th of December, 1845, as to the celebration of this festive period of hers:
"During the past week I have been celebrating my apparently quiet but really great and momentous festival, the anniversary of my reception into the church. Ah! dear Steinle, what can I say more than, Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name! How inexpressibly great his mercy and grace, how past all thinking and conceiving! … To be safe-sheltered in the church in times like these, when no hold and no firm footing outside of her can be found! Oh! if our brethren but knew what peace is hers—if they could but imagine what they are thrusting away from them! It is enough to make one's heart bleed. But this I can assure them, that only in the church can one really know her; only by living her life can one understand that life. Outside of the church can one learn much about her, of course, and to a certain extent inform himself; but then, she is not only a something that has been—an historical church—she is a present-existing, living church, because Christ is still alive in her, and still active in his work of reconciliation. Of such a church-life. we can have no outside idea, just because we do not live it. How often should I like to tell Clemens how it is with me now. But, God willing, he surmises it and rejoices thereat. In all things be praise to God!"
In these words there rings out, certainly, the genuine, clear tone of a heart happy in its faith. Equally evident in these passages is the fact, that her personal relations with her Protestant friends and relatives knew no change. With a certain pious fidelity of friendship, which was peculiar to her, she sought to hold fast to the old ties which had become so dear, and always met her former companions in faith with the same simple, trusting affection. Cornelius, who welcomed her conversion with heartfelt interest, after his return from Rome writes to her from Berlin, on the 4th of June, 1844:
"In Rome I learned that you had at last fully taken heart. It did not surprise me. God bless you, and protect you hereafter both from spiritual pride and indifference."
Certainly no one could less need this admonition than Emily Linder, who was a pattern of lowly humility. No one was more sweetly considerate and liberal than she; and Abbot Haneberg most justly remarked at her grave, that, after her conversion, she was scrupulous to discharge all the duties of friendship toward her former companions in faith, and never failed fully to appreciate all who proved worthy of her respect.
This unchanging fidelity induced her to make a trip, the very summer after her conversion, to her native city of Basle, and to Lucerne, where resided other relatives of hers. A personal visit just at that time seems to her then more a duty than ever, in order that her relatives might have ocular evidence "that the Catholic Church is not an estranging one, and cherishes no feeling like that of hate." This sentiment regulated her conduct throughout. A longing for a universal religious reunion strongly possessed her, and she was deeply grieved to see many honest Protestants standing so near Catholicity, who did not recognize "the historic church in the existing one," mainly (judging by her own experience) from a lack of proper information and from a certain shyness, which they could not explain even to themselves. "The emergency is great; souls are hungering and thirsting; but the more sensitive of the Protestants shrink from that shock to the feelings and social relations which they fear will ensue—a great mistake; for love will experience no diminution; it will be increased. But outside of the church they know nothing of this. Alas! how much do they not know!"
This was written in 1846. Three years later she recurred again to her favorite idea in a charming letter addressed to Professor Steinle from Regensburg, on Ascension-day, May 17th, 1849:
"As I stood gazing at the people thronging up the steps and through the grand old portals of our superb cathedral, my heart was strangely moved. I saw in spirit the time when all people, united again and happy, would stream with songs of hallelujah through these portals and proclaim the wonderful works of God. Could I but see this and then depart in peace! Such may not be my lot, but in eternity the intelligence may yet reach me and be a theme of thanksgiving to God."
As though from her very childhood a member of the church, she felt from the first moment entirely at home in her precincts and in the blessed activity of her communion, becoming quickly and easily wonted to all Catholic practices, to which she gave herself up with all the intelligence and abandonment of her soul. How well she now appreciated the truth of the words addressed to her on joining the church by the noble Cardinal Diepenbrock, "You press now the ground which, not only Christ's own footsteps, but his very hands, betokened as the foundation of his church; which his spirit consecrated, which, his love hallowed: the soil whence all those vines should spring, which clinging around and clambering over his cross, may literally by and on him bear fruits of love, of humility, of fidelity, to all eternity!" And following his faithful precepts, she forthwith launched her barque, and, wafted by the breath of God, it glided peacefully over the broad stream of the church-life.
Amid the deep peace which flowed in upon her, she now recommenced with fresh vigor her artistic occupations, devoting herself with more fervor than ever to religious painting. The forenoon was regularly passed at the easel. What a pleasure it must have been to her now to produce altar and other pictures for the house of the Lord! These she donated to poor churches, sending them sometimes to great distances, even to poor Catholic communities in Greece and Paris. Whenever a call for assistance reached her, according to her capacity she was ready with her offering. Her great industry in art enabled her to respond to numerous requests, and in the course of a long life she rendered many a poor parish happy, which would otherwise have been long compelled to dispense with churchly embellishment. Free from all artistic fastidiousness, she never disdained to make copies of other pictures. Thus with great interest and ability she made a copy of a picture by Overbeck, which she had in her collection, for the chapel of the Sisters of Mercy in Munich. With a modest esteem for her own abilities, she always worked under the supervision of an old master, whose judgment never failed to have its weight with her. A deep and tender sensibility pervades her pictures; and if she betrays a certain timidity in the technical execution, there is evidence of great industry and attention to detail. One of her best works, perhaps, is a portrait of Brentano, an oil painting remarkable for likeness and spirituality of expression. After his death, she had this lithographed by Knauth, and copies struck off. It is given in the first volume of his complete works, and is accompanied by a verse which serves as a burthen to one of his most beautiful legends, as it might to the legend of his life, commencing,
"O star and flower, soul and clay,
Love, suffering, time, eternity."
The ancient and laudable habit among lovers of art to enrich, by special orders and purchases, their own homes—that noble privilege of educated wealth!—she practised to a lavish extent. Her collection of pictures embraced gradually works of the most eminent artists. Besides the masters already mentioned, (Overbeck, Cornelius, Eberhard,) Steinle was represented in a series of glorious creations. Several of these, like the "Manger-Festival of St. Francis," the "Legend of St. Marina," were the source of some of Brentano's beautiful inspirations and are now included in his sacred poems. In addition to these artists were Schnorr, Schraudolph, Schwind, Führich, Neher, Eberle, Ahlborn, Koch, etc. In another respect, also, she approved herself a true artist, namely, by rendering constant assistance to such pupils of the distinguished masters with whom she was friendly, as gave evidence of talent. Her helping hand alone rendered, indeed, many an artistic undertaking possible; and not a few artists had occasion, in such instances, to admire not only the liberality but delicacy with which she dispensed orders and bore with trying delays. She exhibited an extraordinary degree of patience in the friendly manner with which she would conform herself to personal circumstances and private relations which did not at all concern her, even in cases of work delayed for years and paid for in advance. She would even heap coals of fire upon their heads by surprising them with further money advances—a charity which at times was exceedingly opportune. By this and similar methods Miss Linder, without any display, accomplished much good, and constantly experienced the pure pleasure of making others happy. And in yet another manner she showed a noble liberality. With rare unselfishness she would allow copies to be made and disseminated of the most valuable drawings in her collection, her own private property. She not only encouraged efforts of this kind, but sometimes at her own expense actually initiated them. By this multiplication of fine works of art she shared prominently in that noble task undertaken by Overbeck and his companions—the establishment of a more dignified and elevated art standard.
True art seemed to assume with her, year by year, a graver aspect. In judging of a work, she deemed its intent just as important as its execution. She discerned in art a reflected radiance from the world of light: and all that did not tend upward to this she regarded as idle effort and labor lost. She observed with pain an increasing tendency to the material, particularly since the year 1850; and nothing more deeply incensed her than a demeaning of art to low and base uses. Even in Munich, after Cornelius left and Louis. I. descended the throne, there existed no longer the ancient standard. What is now left of that school of sacred art, once blossoming out with such inspiriting vigor? It now leads the existence of a Cinderella. Even in the year 1850, Miss Linder remarked: "Our academy affords me no longer any very great pleasure: the period of love and inspiration has passed. Shall we ever see its return?"
The gathering clouds in the political horizon and the disturbance of social relations were not encouraging to any hope like this. But at just such a time, when outside life was forbidding, she found how grateful a definite aim and mission may be, and experienced the quiet delight of art and art-occupation more than ever. She thus writes from Pöhl, a favorite resort of hers in summer, adjacent to the Ammersee, "I shall yet make a little tour in the Tyrol and then ensconce myself in winter quarters, where I shall be happy in a work already commenced and which will immediately engross me. It is a source of the greatest happiness in these days to have a given task. How much it enables one to get rid of!" On viewing Gallait's picture of "Egmont and Horn" in the exhibition, she remarked, "I should not care to own the picture, and yet there is much to admire in it. The sphere of art is so extensive and yet so limited—after all, one cannot but feel that everything not in God's service is, to say the least, superfluous."
An evening quiet overspread her relations with the outside world. But uninterruptedly until her death she kept up, in her own home, the accustomed hospitality. Her house was always a central point of really good society. No literary or artistic celebrity could long tarry in Munich without an invitation to her table, around which every week a little circle was gathered. Privy-Counsellor von Ringseis usually acted as host, a man whose varied knowledge, ripe experience, and inexhaustible humor better befitted him than any other to blend the most opposite characteristics of the guests. With friends in the distance she maintained an extensive correspondence, and also cultivated her friendly relations with them by regular summer trips: a passion for travel and a love of nature remaining true to her into advanced old age.
A nature so profound, so true, and so enlightened was constituted for friendship, and Emily Linder served as a model in this regard. She possessed those two qualities by which it is best retained—candor and disinterestedness. What she was capable of as to the latter quality has already been sufficiently shown. An open frankness was the groundwork of her character. She possessed a kind but impartial judgment, and in the right place she knew how to assert it. The same sincerity was expected of others, and nothing with her outweighed truthfulness. Whoever offended in this point came to conclusions with her speedily and once for all. A half-and-half sincerity or prevarication could force even her dovelike mildness to resentment. When called to pass judgment upon the work of a friendly artist, there arose a noble contest between frankness and kindness. Her opinions were always to the point, and by the soundness of her judgment she gave food for reflection. But in cases of a change of opinion after more mature consideration, she was quick to acknowledge herself at fault. A single incident may illustrate this. On occasion, of a defence, by an artist, of a celebrated master, to one of whose works she had taken exceptions, she replied:
"My first judgment, then, was unquestionably hasty. But among friends I shall never like that degree of caution always insisted upon which admits of no quick and impulsive word; for thus would all open-heartedness be repressed; a thing which no amount of shrewdness or cool deliberation could ever replace. I beg for myself the privilege therefore, hereafter, just as often, and perhaps just as hastily, to express my opinion."
She reposed the same confidence in the judgment of others. All the more weighty art matters about which she concerned herself were submitted to the counsel and decision of intelligent friends of art. She took the most lively interest, also, in every important event or crisis in the families of these friends. Her thoughtful consideration loved to express itself in pleasant souvenirs and playful surprises of gifts; and her fidelity often extended even to the departed. Many a friend, after having passed to a long home, was endowed with a memorial Mass which she established for the repose of his soul. The Klee and Möhler memorial, a composition of Steinle, copies of which she caused at her own expense to be made, she intended (an intention, indeed, never realized) as an aid to the establishment of a Klee and Möhler fund; and a lasting monument it would have proved to the memory of these two noble men. For any expression of fidelity toward herself she was deeply grateful; particularly in her more advanced years, after she became more and more aware how rare a thing is disinterested attachment in this age of unprincipled selfishness. "Any instance of loyal attachment," said she, "moves me the more deeply in these times, when truly it is no fashionable virtue."
A special object of her loving thoughtfulness was her beloved Assisi, the little convent of the German sisters of St. Francis. In times of great distress, particularly during the ravages of the Revolution, it was no small consolation and delight to receive thence, after a long interval, reassuring intelligence. Particularly was this the case during the Mazzini terrorism of 1849. In the autumn of this year, she announced to a friend, with something like motherly pride: "I have received tidings lately from our German nuns at Assisi. Appalling things have happened at Rome, and indications of the same have threatened elsewhere, even at Assisi. But the good women bravely set at naught all intimidation and threat, and have come out entirely unharmed. Yes, even the gangs themselves are reported to have said: One cannot get the better of these Germans, they pray too much. May we all of us lay hands upon the same trusty weapon!" The burgher-maiden whom she took with her as candidate to Assisi on her journey to Rome in 1829, has already been, for the last twenty-four years, Superior of the German convent; it so chanced that she attained to this position the very year that Emily Linder became a Catholic. During that time, more than twenty Bavarian maidens followed her to Assisi. If the gratitude of happy people, who praise God daily that they have found "the true ark of peace," ever proved a blessing, this blessing accrued, in rich measure, to the artist from Assisi. Her name is entered in the memorial book of the convent, and, so long as this spiritual order exists, she will live there as their "best benefactress, and as their dear, good mother in Christ." Thus is she spoken of in the numerous and touching letters of the pious sisters.
Seldom has a human being made a more magnanimous use of a large income than the departed Emily Linder. Her benevolence was on a grand scale. Her whole nature was generosity itself; but that which at first was but natural good will to all became afterward, by the pious spirit which pervaded her, an element of her religious worship. She considered herself but as the almoner of the riches God had entrusted to her. Her goodness was of that serene character which never showed aught of impatience toward those begging or initiating charities. She gave to both with equal friendliness. She contributed lavishly to public institutions for the sick and suffering. And yet what she gave to the individual poor, and such special families as were commended to her, must also have been a very considerable sum. In these simpler distributions of charity she showed a marked delicacy. The modest poor who came to her house she never allowed to be waited on by her servants, but administered to their wants herself. In some instances she bore her gifts on certain specified days to their dwellings; and in these cases she was just as systematic, and as punctual to the day and the hour, as in all things else. Christmas in her house was a festival of the poor. The lines of Clemens Brentano in his collection of sacred poems, entitled To the Benefactress, on the Occasion of her Presentation to the Poor, refer to this incident. To what extent and in what instances she served as unknown guardian angel, her intimate friends rather guessed at than knew. The character of her benevolence, generally, was piously-noiseless and still. Through hidden channels she often reached far in the distance, sustaining and rescuing (both physically and spiritually) where the need was very urgent. Often, thus, a gift flowed forth from her and sped like a sunbeam into some languishing heart. Many an obstacle has she removed from the path of a struggling child of humanity; into many a stout but wounded spirit has she infused new life and energy. Clemens Brentano termed this a "heavenly little piece of strategy."
This noiseless activity in art and benevolence did not withdraw her attention from what was going on outside, and although she never stepped beyond the natural boundaries of her position, and was of too quiet a nature to mingle generally in the strife of parties, she nevertheless, to the last year of her life, maintained a lively interest in all the great church and political questions of the day. The prodigious changes which took place in the world during the fourth period of her life, what heart would not have been profoundly stirred by them? But, however painful to her the prevailing Machiavelism of the age, the insanity of the revolutionary leaders, the pitiable confusion of the people, and the undermining of all conservative bulwarks in state and society, courage and hope still maintained the upper hand. The pressure upon the church and the Pope filled her perhaps with concern, but did not dismay her. She had the right standard, and the consolation which it brought, in judging of the destinies of the nations. When the revolutionary storms of 1848 and 1849 burst upon them and swept over Germany and Italy, she remarked: "The experience of all history, and the consolation it imparts, is just this: God allows men their way to a certain point, and where the end seems just achieved. But then is inscribed with an almighty hand, the 'Thus far.' And though his church be shaken, this is far better for us than to be reposing upon cushions of ease."
Her confidence was similarly undisturbed during the succeeding momentous years. During her attendance upon the drama of The Passion, at Oberammergau, in the year 1860, she was occupied with reflections upon the stupendous drama of passion of our own times. "There is something so fearfully grand in the present events of the world," she wrote to her friend in Frankfort, "that a certain elevation fills the soul, raising one above this little life of ours upon earth. The image in our mind of the holy father is already so spiritualized that it begins to be invested with the sanctity of the martyr. How many may have to follow in his martyr footsteps? Shall we live to see the victory? At my time of life, no; and yet a secret joy often possesses me at the thought of this glorious era. But I say with you, the great task for us all is to gain heaven. God vouchsafe this!" The latest period of German distress she lived through with the intensest sympathy. She accepted the appalling catastrophe as a severe trial, even to her own personal feelings and hopes, and recognized in this calamity the initiation of a still greater. "For me," she wrote to the same friend, "the hope of any kind of a future is now past. I must subject my heart to no more disappointment; but the mercy of God for the individual is still attainable and great; to every one accessible and possible. You belong, of course, to the younger generation, and can still dream of a sunrise for our German fatherland. The result of the present calamity, swiftly as it may seem to be plunging us into irremediable ruin, will, nevertheless, never go the length intended by the Prince of Evil. God stands above him; that is certain. The future will be a different one; a very different one, from that which we could ever surmise or guess, even the future of the church. And this future will be God's. Let that content us."
Her life was a bright contrast to the demoralization, the unrest, the arrogant selfishness of our age. She presented to those among whom she lived the picture of a self-sustained, unselfish, reposeful soul. Humility, trust in God, and compassion, this was the fundamental harmony of her daily life. Old age, which often, indeed, smooths away from the good all little imperfections and blemishes of character, rendered her still more considerate, patient, and gentle. Her love of simplicity was as great as were her means. In her own household, well systemized, careful economy; outside of this, severe, almost noticeable plainness. But to her applied the line of the poet:
"A blessing she could see in lowliness to be."
While denying herself, she gave with lavish hand to poverty and distress, to art and to the church. She moved with measured, dignified pace; but a certain religious harmony of action imparted to her being and doing an indescribable grace, which is always the accompaniment of inward purity, and a religion based upon humility.
The Abbé Haneberg, in his beautiful tribute at her grave, remarked, "She seemed, during the last twenty years of her life, to emulate the most pious of her friends and daughters of Assisi, and to aim even to outdo them, so systematic and untiring was her service to God." Of this, however, her friends knew but little. How much she thus quietly accomplished was never fully known until after her death. It will suffice here to state that in the year 1851 she informed herself, through the Superior at Assisi, of their daily regulations, and the usual succession of religious exercises. Her everyday life was identified with the daily life of the church. She appreciated the significant beauty and expressive symbolism of churchly ordinances, and in close observance joined in their celebration. To this end, she followed the Ordo of her diocese, and her favorite prayer-book was the Missal. Her knowledge of languages stood her in good stead here; for, in addition to the modern languages, she had also learned Latin, and had become sufficiently familiar with it to follow intelligently the language of the church. Cardinal Diepenbrock, in 1850, wrote to her of a lady who was occupying herself with the Latin, or church, language; "A worthy study," he remarked. "Have you not also begun it? It strikes me that Clemens was saying something about it. But perhaps you were able to get no farther than the mensa; the mensa Domini would naturally be enough for you." But she went farther than this. In her manuscripts were found Latin exercises, written under the guidance of the worthy old Bröber. One room of her spacious residence was arranged as a chapel, in which was the superb altar-piece by Eberhard, "The Triumph of the Church." This chapel was favored by the ordinariat with a Mass licence. On the anniversary of her union with the church she was accustomed to receive holy communion here; and here the departed Bishop Valentin, of Regensburg, once celebrated Mass. Here, also, she devoted daily a certain time to meditation and the perusal of the Holy Scriptures. Her favorite place of devotion, however, was the little chapel of the ducal hospital which she frequented twice a day; early in the morning, and again at evening. She had for years a quiet little place in the organ gallery where, day by day, in all weather, and at all seasons of the year, she consecrated a couple of hours to prayer.
As the years flew by, she withdrew herself more and more from the world, and sought to be "hid in God." The departure to their final home of so many friends, together with other events, served as slight admonitions, which by her thoughtful heart were not unheeded. She recognized in this matter fresh cause of gratitude to God, who was dealing so tenderly with her to the very end. "I consider it," she wrote, "a special favor of the Lord that he grants me so long a preparation for my final hour." Years previously, she had put herself in Christian readiness for her last journey, and only hoped that it might prove "a good death hour." With customary precision, she had ordered all her temporal affairs. She had even made provision as to her interment, and the final burial service. Her arrangements for the latter of these, written in a bold and beautiful hand, were dated the 7th of October, 1865. On the festival of the Epiphany, 1867, she was for the last time in her favorite little chapel of the ducal hospital. Only a few weeks previously, she had begun to feel ill, and now symptoms of dropsy suddenly developed themselves. The invalid recognized her condition with Christian resignation, but did not yet relinquish hope of a recovery. "The task now is, to resign myself and to be patient. God help me to this," she wrote at the close of January. It was her last letter. Her friend Apollonia hastened from Regensburg, and she, who, twenty-three years before, had stood at her side when received into the church, was now to stand at her death-bed. The invalid requested that her friend should remain with her one week; and exactly at the close of the week she died. During her illness she found special consolation in the house-altar, where, to her great spiritual comfort, her worthy confessor repeatedly celebrated mass. From this Eberhard altar, where she first made profession of Catholic faith and where she yearly commemorated that happy event, she now received the viaticum and extreme unction. In conformity with her wish, on the festival of St. Apollonia mass was again celebrated in her little chapel. It was her last mass, and the final union of the two friends in holy sacrament. She seemed now to rejoice in her approaching dissolution as though it were a return home. One morning as her priest entered, she stretched out her arms and exclaimed, "May I—oh! may I go home?" "Yes, the guardian angel accompanies you, he guides you thither," was the reply. Thereupon she was silent, remained in deep meditation, and spoke but little after. Yet she seemed to participate in all that transpired; if prayer were uttered, she prayed also; to all who drew near she gave a friendly glance, but, for the most part, remained absorbed and still.
On the day preceding her death, she summoned all her strength, and with difficult effort gave expression to several wishes, the last of her earthly life. She recalled an admirable artist, whom she held in high personal esteem, from whom she had long desired a picture as an addition to her collection. She directed a very considerable sum to be sent to him for a historical picture, which was now to be painted for the museum at Bale. The future of her poor, also, such as had been accustomed to receive little charities, engaged her thoughts; she desired that these charities should be continued until they had found other benefactors. Her last words were in allusion to Jerusalem. She bethought herself of the "Watchers at the Holy Sepulchre," (of the order of St. Francis,) and also of the "Zion Society," to both of which she had made yearly contributions, and which she now similarly remembered. Thus had her life its characteristic close. Her last mental activity was exercised in works of charity, of art, and of religion. With a glance at Jerusalem and the sepulchre of her Saviour, she now went forward toward the new Jerusalem. Her end was the falling asleep of a child. In the early morning of the 12th of February, 1867, without a single death-struggle, she sank into slumber—quietly, painlessly, peacefully.
A gentleman, intimately befriended with her, remarked, "After her death, I had occasion to observe the intense grief of those who had been recipients of her bounty, and then first became aware what a truly royal munificence had been hers, which all were ignorant of, save God and the poor." Such were the tears that followed her, together with those countless others, which during her life she had already dried.
On the afternoon of the 14th of February a long funeral procession, composed of the best Catholic society of Munich, and throngs of the poor, together with the superintendent of public charities, (then represented by the mayor of the city,) moved from the pleasant mansion on the corner of Carl street toward the cemetery, to render their last homage to this noble friend of art and the poor. The Abbé Haneberg, an old friend of hers, pronounced the benediction of the church over her grave, which was located not far from the grave of Möhler. In her written instructions, Emily Linder desired only a simple stone cross above her, the pedestal of the cross bearing the inscription:
The slumberer, here, confides in the mercy of God:
the simplest, but in its simplicity, the most touching testimony to a being whose interior life was all humility and trust in God, and whose exterior activity had been the purest mercy itself. To her might be applied a verse of the beautiful requiem addressed by Brentano to another departed friend:
"He, for whom our willing gifts
On the needy we confer,
From his eight beatitudes
Singled Mercy out for her."
The whole spirit which accompanied her through a life of seventy years still lived on in her bequests. The half of her large fortune she left to benevolent and charitable objects; chiefly to schools and hospitals. True Swiss that she was, she was specially mindful of her native city. The largest amount donated—200,000 florins—was bequeathed to the Bishop of Bale, for the benefit of his diocese. Her art-treasures were, with few exceptions, incorporated with the museum of Bale, to whose first establishment she had originally contributed no small amount, and which, with true patrician feeling, lavishly endowed during her life.
In these bequests to art and to the church, Emily Linder reared for herself a monument which will keep her in blessed remembrance; and this monument is only the last milestone of record on the pathway of a life thickly studded with works of charity. Truly a significant, steadfast existence, harmonious from its commencement to its very close.
In days of depression and perplexity would we gaze upon a portrait of true humanity, ennobled and enlightened by Christianity, (a portrait we might well present as a study to the young,) we may point with quiet confidence to the departed Emily Linder, and exclaim: Behold here a character noble, unselfish, and complete—a nature of rare purity and depth—a transparent and beautiful spirit, who verified her faith by her love.